Chapter 10
"Ruhi.. shall we buy these tomatoes? " Lorenzo ask, as he check out the fresh tomatoes.
Currently we are at street bazar for buying some veggies and groceries. And till now he didn't even let me hold a bag, while he's holding three of them.
This man is insane . Since it's summer vacation i didn't have to go to school unless it's an important meeting so it was peaceful. But one fear has been eating me is what if lorenzo regain his memory?
Would he still look at me the same way? Still carry my groceries without complaint? Still wake up early to make me breakfast? Or would everything… change?
I shook the thought away quickly when I felt his hand brush mine as we walked. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did because the corner of his lips curled in that infuriating, knowing smirk.
I try to push that thought away as Lorenzo walks ahead to the next stall, still carrying all the bags like it’s his life’s mission to make sure I don’t lift a single finger.
He picks up a bunch of basil, brings it close to his nose, and inhales like he’s just discovered the meaning of life.
“Fresh,” he says with a satisfied nod, tossing it into the basket without even asking if we need it.
I shake my head, trailing behind him, my eyes drifting over the colorful chaos of the bazar the vendors shouting out offers, the mingling scent of spices and fresh produce, the chatter of women bargaining over onions.
But even with all this noise, the thought keeps creeping in.
What if Lorenzo wakes up one morning and remembers everything?
Will he still look at me the same way? Or will the warmth in his eyes turn into something… darker?
“Ruhi.” His voice snaps me out of my spiral. He’s holding up a ripe mango in one hand, smirking like he’s about to say something inappropriate in public. “Sweet… just like you.”
I groan and snatch it from his hand, throwing it into the basket before anyone around us can hear him. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he leans closer, his breath warm against my ear, “you still keep me.”
I roll my eyes and start walking faster, pretending to be interested in the next stall, but my heart… yeah, it’s not listening to me. It’s already beating faster.
I stopped in my tracks when I spotted a pani puri stall at the corner of the street, the vendor busy filling the crispy puris with spicy water and mashed potatoes. My mouth instantly watered, and I turned to Lorenzo, who was still holding those heavy bags like it was nothing.
“Lorenzo,” I tugged his sleeve, grinning, “you have to try this.”
He looked at the stall like it was some sort of suspicious contraption. “What is that?” His brows knitted together. “It looks… fragile.”
“It’s pani puri,” I explained, almost offended by his tone. “A tiny piece of heaven. Crispy shell, spicy water, tangy chutney—it’s perfect.”
He glanced from the stall to me, clearly doubtful. “And you want me to… eat it?”
“Yes,” I said, already pulling him towards the vendor. “Don’t tell me Mr. Italian Fine Dining is scared of street food.”
He narrowed his eyes at the challenge, clearly not liking to lose. “Fine. But if I fall sick, you’re responsible.”
I laughed, ignoring his grumbling as I ordered a plate. The vendor handed over a puri, dripping with spicy water, and I motioned for Lorenzo to open his mouth. He hesitated, then leaned forward like he was bracing for battle.
The moment it touched his tongue, his eyes widened, and for a second, I thought he might spit it out. But then he chewed, swallowed, and stood there in stunned silence.
“Well?” I pressed, eager.
He blinked slowly, then said, “That… was an explosion.”
I burst out laughing. “That’s the point!”
He studied the plate again, then sighed dramatically. “Alright. Give me another one.”
By the time we got home, my arms were still suspiciously light because Lorenzo refused to let me carry a single bag from the bazar to the house. I tried to take one halfway, but he just gave me that look. The don’t-even-think-about-it look.
The groceries were spread across the kitchen counter, but before I could start sorting them, I remembered the laundry pile in the corner of my bedroom. If I didn’t do it today, it would start developing a personality of its own.
I grabbed the basket and headed toward the laundry area, but of course, Lorenzo followed me like some overprotective shadow.
“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning against the doorway.
“Laundry,” I replied, tossing a shirt into the machine.
“You don’t do laundry when I’m here.”
I snorted. “Oh? So what, the clothes will magically wash themselves if you glare at them hard enough?”
Instead of answering, he came over, took the basket from me, and started loading the clothes in himself my clothes. His fingers lingered a little too long on my scarf before he tossed it in, and when he picked up one of my dresses, he gave me this slow smile. “You look beautiful in this one.”
I rolled my eyes and turned to grab the detergent, but he was already there, taking it from my hands. “I’ll do it,” he said firmly.
“You act like putting clothes in a washing machine is some dangerous mission,” I teased.
He shrugged. “Every mission involving you is important.”
The worst part? He said it so casually, without a hint of irony, that my cheeks warmed.
Once the machine started, I thought he’d leave, but instead, he pulled me closer by the waist. “Now that the clothes are washing… what do we do while we wait?”
I arched a brow. “We? I have to cut vegetables for dinner—”
He silenced me by pressing his forehead against mine, his voice low. “Dinner can wait.”
I laughed, pushing at his chest, but he didn’t let go. And maybe… I didn’t want him to.
The laundry machine hummed in the background, but the only thing I could focus on was the warmth of his hands on my back and the way he looked at me like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
IF I DIE SOMEDAY, JUST KNOW IT'S BECAUSE OF MY WIFE BEAUTY.
Her eyes, lips, herself is enough to make my day . My eyes lock with her as my gaze fall on her lips.
Full, pink, kissable.
“What?” she asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
I take a slow step closer, my voice low. “You have no idea how hard it is for me not to kiss you right now.”
Her cheeks flush, and she tries to roll her eyes, but her hand tightens around the edge of the counter like she’s bracing herself. “Then don’t,” she murmurs, “hold back, I mean.”
That’s all the permission I need.
I tilt her chin up gently, leaning in until our breaths mingle. Her eyes flutter shut right before my lips brush hers and for a moment, the world narrows down to the taste of her, the warmth of her mouth moving with mine, the way her fingers curl into my shirt like she never wants to let go.
When I finally pull back, she’s looking at me like I’ve just stolen all the air from her lungs.
“Dinner can wait,” I whisper again, my forehead resting against hers.
This time, she doesn’t argue.
She has this habit one that’s driving me insane of making the simplest things feel… dangerous. Not in the way my world is dangerous, but in the way where I can feel myself slipping, faster and deeper, without a single ounce of resistance.
Dinner was nothing fancy. Just a home-cooked meal in a small kitchen. But every time she brushed past me to reach for the salt or leaned close to check the curry, I could smell her shampoo, feel the warmth of her arm against mine, and it made my chest tighten.
She doesn’t even realize it, does she? That she’s softening me without trying.
And that God help me is exactly why I can’t stop looking at her.
I let her take the lead while cooking, pretending I’m only there to “help,” but really, I just want to watch her move. The way her hair slips over her shoulder when she bends down, the tiny crease between her brows when she focuses, the quick little smile she hides when she catches me staring.
When we finally sit to eat, I take one bite and nearly groan. I’ve eaten in Michelin-star restaurants, sat at tables where every course costs more than most people’s rent but nothing, nothing, tastes like this.
“Good?” she asks, her eyes bright, like she actually cares about my answer.
“Better than good,” I tell her, because it’s the truth. And because I want her to know that she just ruined every other meal I’ll ever have.
She tries to play it off with a roll of her eyes, but I catch the faint pink in her cheeks. It makes me want to push more, just to see how far I can take it before she cracks and admits she likes hearing it.
When she throws a napkin at me, I catch it easily, smirking like I always do. But inside? I’m already thinking about tomorrow. About how to keep her in this mood, in this space laughing with me instead of looking over her shoulder.
Because the truth is, the world outside this kitchen is mine. Dangerous. Cold. Brutal.
But this?
This is hers.
And I’ll burn my entire empire to the ground before I let anyone take it from her.